


counting stars on the ceiling

by evocates



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inception_kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Saito falls in love with Robert’s brattiness, waits for forty years, and comes back and wins him with contracts and coffee. And George Bernard Shaw quotes. The last part is important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	counting stars on the ceiling

**Author's Note:**

> Done for this prompt on inception_kink: [_Saito pursuing Robert. It is not by force but by frequency that the water hollows the stone_.](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/9742.html?thread=19212814)

_Robert Fischer's eyes are bright and so blue. Saito is reminded of the sea at the coasts of Okinawa, of the sun beating down on his skin and the life that hides beneath the pensive waters. His breath catches in his throat, his fingers tingling from where Fischer had batted his hand away--_

 _And in that moment, surrounded by snow and feeling the warmth of Okinawan summer; seeing nothing but white but drowning in blue; stuck in this man's mind but feeling more real than he had in a decade; dying and living and tasting blood at the back of his mouth— In that one moment—_

 _Saito falls in love._

***

The entire trip was strange, to say the least. Robert rarely, if ever, fell asleep on planes, because he hated the turbulence. But this time, he not only fell asleep, but he slept for the whole ten hours.

And he had woken up to—a sort of an epiphany. A release of the stifling weight on his chest. He didn’t understand it, and he couldn’t understand what had caused it. There was only a half-remembered dream.

A dream of snow. Of paper pinwheels. A safe. His father.

A man who told him that he was his subconscious security. He had a name, but it was one that he couldn’t remember. There was another man, one with a bad cough, and the starkest image Robert could remember was the sight of his blood on the snow.

A half-remembered dream.

Robert went through the next two days as if in a dream. He practically floated through them, preparing for the funerals, receiving the condolences of his father’s associates (never friends) and reassuring his subordinates. Uncle Peter was by his side the whole time, but Robert couldn’t help but start to distance himself from him, turning away and staring out of the window in the bare few moments when he was alone.

Like now.

“Package for Mr. Robert Fischer, sir.”

His head jerked up, and for the umpteenth time of the day he saw another delivery man, dressed in the uniform of some florist or another and carrying a giant wreathe in his arms. White lilies were the main motif, woven in with pale yellow baby’s breath and light purple-white orchids, with small lilies-of-the-valley at the side. No white roses. No giant flowers.

It was... surprisingly tasteful. Robert blinked.

“Uh,” he said, at loss of words for once. “Set it to the side.” He made a vague motion to the piles upon piles of flowers that had stacked up. Then, he took out a pen, ready to sign for the delivery.

“And this too, sir,” the man whipped out a smaller package from somewhere, and Robert waved again.

“Just put it with the flowers.”

“No, no,” the man shook his head. “This is for _Mr. Robert Fischer_ , personally.” He emphasised the words through pinched lips, and Robert stared at him for a moment. Then at the package. It wasn’t ticking, he thought, then smacked himself mentally because if it was, his security would’ve detained the man at the door.

(But then, his security should’ve not let him be kidnapped while he was trying to get a taxi in the rain—wait.

That never happened. That was—

A dream, wasn’t it?)

“Uh,” he said again, dumbly. The man frowned, pushing the brown paper package into his hands, and Robert just took it. Then, he signed the form. That, at least, was something familiar. Mechanical. He could do it in his sleep.

(But they didn’t want his signature. They wanted something else.

But there was no safe in Father’s office.)

Robert shook his head hard, clearing the cobwebs of half-memories from his thoughts. Then, he took the package, tugging at the taped ends and opening it. A square, white box inside—he set it on the table, and opened it too.

A snow globe. Robert drew it out, shook it. It didn’t explode, or start ticking. He stared at it a little more, at the fake ‘snow’ that fell upon the tiny windmill inside, falling onto slowly-spinning sails before being sent up into the air once more.

“Compliments from Mr. Saito, sir. And condolences, for your loss.”

The voice made him turn around. The delivery man was still there, and for the first time, Robert realised that he wasn’t wearing the uniform of a florist, or even UPS or FedEx. There was a Proclus Global logo emblazoned on his chest.

Saito. Proclus Global’s Chairman. His father’s main competitor. Robert blinked.

“Thank you,” he said automatically. The man bowed, hands tucked close to his thighs, and he left the room. Robert stared after him for a moment more before looking back at the snow globe.

The windmill’s sails are strange – they were so huge, and unwieldy. It looked more like a paper pinwheel set on top of a farmhouse than a true windmill, really—

Robert’s eyes widened. He put down the snow globe, tossed the packaging away before walking around the desk and picking up his father’s last will. Of course, everything had gone to him, as expected. Robert knew that he was expected to take up his father’s burdens, to slide into the shoes of the President of Fischer-Morrow, to continue the legacy that his father had built.

And yet.

( _“I was disappointed... that you tried.”_ )

He glanced at the snow globe again, picking it up and weighing it in his hands. For a moment, that feeling he had on the plane came back again. The sudden epiphany. As if the world had shifted, and he saw everything in such a different way.

Robert stood up, placing the globe on the table. He pressed his fingers against it, let it roll slightly away from him.

Saito, from Proclus Global.

He walked over to the shelves, and took the folder that listed all of Fischer-Morrow’s component parts and companies down, and opened it.

( _“Your father’s last taunt... to build something for yourself.”_ )

It looked like Robert was going to rise to it, after all.

***  
Two weeks after Maurice Fischer’s funeral, Robert Fischer called a press conference.

The next day, the media exploded.

>   
> **FISCHER HEIR TO DISMANTLE FAMILY EMPIRE**
> 
>  **SHAREHOLDERS QUESTION FISCHER JR'S SANITY**
> 
>  **FISCHER-MORROW STOCKS FALL UNPRECEDENTED 6%**
> 
>  **FUTURE BLEAK FOR ENERGY CONGLOMERATE**

Saito sat in his office in Tokyo, spreading out the articles. _The Economist_ , _New York Times_ , _Newsweek_ , _Sydney Morning Herald_. All of them spelt out doom in many of the same words. All of them reporting that Robert Fischer planned to dismantle Fischer-Morrow, to sell the pieces, and from there the empire would collapse without much to hold it up.

The vultures were circling, Eames had said.

But Saito only stood up, turning around and pressing his palm against the full-length, one-way glass window of his office. He looked outwards to the Tokyo landscape, to the endless neon lights that flashed. There was a huge LCD screen TV, and Saito watched as Robert’s face flashed across it. Even here, Fischer-Morrow made its waves. Even here, they reported Robert Fischer’s doom.

Saito only smiled to himself, and wondered if they had heard of the legends of the phoenix. Of how the old must be destroyed, burnt down and reduced to nothing but ash—before the glory of the new can rise until, and sing.

He would wait. He would wait until Robert Fischer had shaken off each and every piece of ash that his father’s inheritance had laid upon his shoulders. He would wait until he soared in the skies by the own merits.

Until the day he proved all these articles wrong. Until—Saito turned back to his desk, and picked up the paper pinwheel, small enough to hold in his palm—until Robert Fischer proved Saito right.

It was only a matter of time, and Saito had grown very good at waiting.

***

 _It is a situation that almost kills him, almost destroys his pride. Saito crawls on the ground, elbows digging into the metal of the vents but he could not even lift himself up. He couldn’t even breathe, not when his lungs were filled with blood and every breath felt swallowing boiling water; felt like drowning._

 _If the bullet wound doesn’t kill him, then the shame of his weaknesses will. Saito lifts his head, watching as Robert Fischer walks towards the safe. There’s something in those blue eyes of his, wide with apprehension, with hope, with a thousand and one things that Saito still has to learn how to identify. A million and one things that he suddenly wants to learn about Robert Fischer._

 _But right now, he can only wait, wait and try to continue breathing as Fischer walks towards the safe. He can only watch as a projection drop from the ceiling. He can only try to scramble at his gun, coughing and coughing and his vision blurs, fading, darkening as his fingers tremble and shake and he can’t aim—_

 _He can only watch as Robert Fischer dies._

 _He can only, later on, lean against the wall and focuses his sight and take out every single bit of life he has in him to protect the corpse of the man he had failed to protect just now. He can only make sure that his hands do not shake; that when he throws the grenade it sweeps out each and every projection._

 _He can only wait for the sound of Eames’ footsteps as he rushes back before he can let himself die._

 _And so, Saito learns. To wait._

***

It had caused a massive uproar. Robert knew it would; knew it from the moment he saw Uncle Peter’s shocked and disbelieving face and felt his resolve steel even further, changed under the fires of adversity into diamond. He could not go back; he refused to even consider such a thing.

Because his father would have wanted him to. More than that—Robert knew he was his own person; knew that he was more than the son of Maurice Fischer and he should never force himself to be nothing more. When he knew that he could build his own company, form his own world

Besides, if they wanted him to be exactly like Maurice, then he was doing exactly that. His father had built Fischer-Morrow from ground up, changed it from a minor company to a grand one.

Robert was doing the same. Fischer-Morrow was his, but it was not _his_. It was his father’s, or perhaps Uncle Peter’s, and Robert had practically nothing to do with its formation or growth.

But most of the world had not seen that, and Robert was not as naive as to believe that they would. He grew up in this world, after all; this world in which people’s teeth all hid fangs and when they smiled at you they were not seeing _you_ but your power, your connections, your abilities to give them what they want. This world in which kindness might as well be only a publicity stunt and an obligation, and people made use of each other and stepped over everyone else like they do staircases.

He knew this world as well as the back of his hand. He hated it, true, knew that they were all trying to force Maurice Fischer’s form onto Robert Fischer’s shoulders—but it didn’t mean that he couldn’t manipulate them. That he didn’t know how to deal with them; how to play bait and switch until he got his own way.

It wasn’t a game that he liked to play, but it was one that he knew how to.

Yet this was desperately tiring. Uncle Peter had arranged this function, apparently to ‘placate their shareholders and trustees’, and Robert had agreed because he still needed them. Not now, not for Fischer-Morrow, but for the new company he wished to build.

Connections and appearances. The two great rules of the game.

And so for that Robert had smiled to so many people today, powered by the belief in himself, in his future, and it was almost entirely too surreal because he had gone so long without it. He had always believed himself to be inadequate, to be disappointing, that now that he somehow realised that it was fine for himself to be who he was. He had no real reason to believe so, except for the fact that, somehow, he _believed_ that this was what his father would have wanted.

That his father wished this for him. For him to become stronger, and be his own man.

It was terribly freeing thought. Despite how much trouble it had caused, how many sleepless nights he had endured for the sake of going through the papers over and over, deciding which shares to go to which buyer.

It was worth it. Robert watched as Maurice Fischer’s empire crumbled into ash – golden ash, no doubt, made of millions and perhaps even billions – but ash, nonetheless. And he promised to raise a castle amongst it.

But right now, he was simply hiding away from the guests, leaning over the balcony railing. A flute of champagne hung by his fingers, but he ignored it. He really would rather just have coffee. It was cleaner, lighter, and not so oppressively sweet.

Looking out to the LA landscape, Robert could see not much but buildings with neon lights, and the far-off hint of the sea. It was as if he was in a prison cell, with bars that reached up to the skies.

“My apologies,” a voice suddenly cut through his thoughts, and Robert frowned slightly. “But I hope I am not interrupting.”

He turned around, and his eyes widened slightly at the sight of Saito standing there, closing the door of the balcony behind him. He had a cigarette between his lips, and a lighter between his fingers. And no wine glass with him.

The filter was a distinctive orange. Marlboro Reds. Robert felt a frisson of surprise – he would have thought a man like Saito would only smoke Dunhills, or at worse, Benson and Hedges, if they did not go directly for the ‘fashion cigarettes’ made by Cartier and Prada and their lot.

Uncle Peter smoked Cartier, Robert remembered. When he still smoked, anyway. Father’s illness made him stop.

“Ah,” be heard himself reply. “You’re not. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you,” Saito inclined his head, and he walked to the railing, leaning against it. He was all casual arms and loose shoulders, and it was as if he wasn’t in front of his major competitor, of the man whose empire he was proposing to buy out at least half of. The man who, by dissolving his empire, would make Saito’s Proclus Global the major energy conglomerate.

Robert blinked.

Saito tilted his head to the side, turning around. He looked at Robert with a stare that he didn’t, couldn’t, understand. It was warm, and there was a small smile at the edge before Saito turned away, tugging the cigarette out of his mouth.

“I don’t mind if you smoke either, Mr. Saito,” Robert said, and his smile was a little wry. He still remembered the snow globe, and though Saito seemed strangely familiar to him...

Well, he had probably seen the man during functions, or even on the cover of _Times_ and _Newsweeks_ and _The Economists_. Men like him—men like _them_ —rarely managed to keep their faces hidden. Plus there was the snow globe.

Robert hadn’t forgotten about it.

Saito blinked at him before he nodded his thanks, lighting up the cigarette.

“It is a bold decision you have made, Mr. Fischer,” he said quietly, blowing out a cloud of grey smoke as he slanted his eyes to look at Robert once more.

Robert only shrugged. He didn’t really want to talk about it.

“Have you ever heard of a Mr. George Bernard Shaw?” Saito asked, and Robert blinked again, taken aback by the change of topic. He opened his mouth as if to answer, _yes, of course_ , but Saito was already speaking again.

“He said once: ‘The reasonable man adapts himself to the conditions that surround him. The unreasonable man adapts surrounding conditions to himself. Hence, all progress depends on the unreasonable man.’”

And Saito’s gaze was half-amused, half-challenging. Robert gaped at him for a moment, before his lips quirked up. He almost laughed, and turned to stare out into the gardens of the hotel.

“Do you believe yourself to be an unreasonable man, Mr. Saito?”

“Very much so,” Saito replied, and he smiled at crooked smile again. The one that Robert could not fathom.

“Yet the world praises reason,” Robert said, musingly.

Saito shrugged, tapped the ash off the railing and watched it fall down to the ground. Robert tried to be scandalised, but found that he could not be.

“To be a reasonable man is easier, and takes less courage. People always like to praise those who act similarly to themselves.”

“You’re saying that they are cowards,” Robert countered, or perhaps he was agreeing. He wasn’t exactly sure.

“Perhaps,” Saito said, and the light in his eyes had changed. “Or perhaps I am simply saying that they do not dare to try to fight for what they truly want, if it’s easier for them to fit into what they _have_.”

Robert turned away, and tried to not laugh. It was funny, the way the conversation was going. It was as if Saito was encouraging him.

“That’s many words for the same thing, Mr. Saito.”

“So it is,” Saito said, and he was pulling away from the railing, straightening back up as he killed his cigarette and—for some reason—flicked it over the railing. “I will not continue to disturb you, Mr. Fischer.”

He started walking back to the doors of the balcony, and Robert turned around. “Wait.”

Saito stopped.

There was a long silence while Robert tried to find the words. “Thank you.” _For what_? He didn’t know, exactly.

(For leading him into the—the what?

To his father?)

“For the snow globe, I mean. It’s—it’s beautiful.”

Saito smiled, and it was no longer just a tiny thing, barely hidden on the edges. His eyes crinkled, and he laughed, low and quiet. Not mockingly, Robert knew, but as if, somehow, Robert’s words had brought him a great pleasure.

“I hope that it can remind you,” he said, “About what it means to be an unreasonable man.”

And he was already gone, leaving only the quiet thud of a closing door.

***

 _And he dies. He dies, and he waits._

 _Saito waits for forty years._

 _He builds castles, builds kingdoms. He is a tourist who had his passport confiscated, and instead of sitting in jail waiting miserably for Cobb to rescue him, Saito makes this world his own. He learns the tricks of the trade, creates pen and paper from thin air and shapes massive European castles that he’s seen from paintings. They are a little lopsided, a little crooked, and Saito thinks- curiouser and curiouser- and when he presses a hand against a wall it all crumbles down, brick and mortar dissolving back into sand, washed away by the tides much like sandcastles._

 _When he builds again he draws from his memories. He recreates the okiya he has grown up in, the little house in Gion Koubu. He creates paper and wood and bamboo from nothingness and uses it to build his childhood home, spreads out the tatami mats on the floors and walks on it, feeling the thud of his feet against bamboo echoing around the room, around the house, around this world._

 _It’s unbearably lonely. Saito has had never been a man who have much need for people around him—if they are, they are, and they serve a purpose. He has neither time nor need for meaningless chatter, and friendships in the world that he had entwined himself in are full of treachery, hard forged and easily broken._

 _But, here..._

 _Here, he is god. He is Izanagi and Izanami both, and all he needs are his hands and his mind—not even a spear—to create the world._

***

The next time Robert met Saito, it was during a board meeting. To sign over exactly fifty-six percent of Fischer-Morrow’s stocks—including their component companies and the management of them—to Proclus Global. He still remembered Saito’s words; remembered the smell of his cigarette, the weight of his gaze.

He picked up the snow globe from the corner of the table. He was very familiar with its weight by now, and he let it roll around in his hand, feeling the chill of the glass seep into his skin.

Uncle Peter had called him unreasonable when Robert had insisted on going through with splitting up and selling the companies. But instead of getting angry, instead of backing down, Robert had only smiled.

Then let Robert be an unreasonable man. For he no longer wished to be chained down by the expectations of others upon him. If he is unreasonable, then he will be unreasonable until the very end. Until he had broken his father’s empire into pieces so that he could build his own on top.

People called him crazy. All of them, except for one man.

All progress in the world depends upon the unreasonable man, indeed.

“Mr. Fischer.”

Robert’s eyes jerked up, and he met the gaze of his assistant at the door. She bowed. “Mr. Saito is here.”

“Let him in,” he said, and refused to acknowledge the sudden frisson of nervousness, of pleasure, that sparked in his chest.

Saito walked into the room like he owned it, with confident strides and straight shoulders. It was as if he was sweeping in, and Robert could not help be caught up by the presence, immediately standing. “Mr. Saito,” he murmured, and shook his hand before dropped back into his seat.

“Mr. Fischer,” Saito greeted, and there was warmth in his eyes, an upward curve to his mouth that was almost a smile. _So expressive_ , Robert thought, and he knew that this openness was more dangerous than all the steel-and-porcelain masks that his other associates, his other buyers wore.

Yet he couldn’t help but be pleased by it, nonetheless, returning the smile with one of his own even as they settled down into business immediately.

After signing the agreements, Robert set down the pen, folded his fingers together. “May I ask a question, Mr. Saito?”

Saito cocked his head to the side, a silent affirmation.

( _“You’ve already asked it.”_ There was someone else who would have said that.

Robert didn’t know who.)

“Why do you offer so much?” his hands clenched a little tighter. “The amount you offered for is a third higher than the next highest.” Shell’s offer was three hundred million below Proclus’s, and that was after Proclus had driven up the value with its first bid.

With the amount that Saito offered, Robert had expected it to be for at least seventy percent. But Saito only wanted fifty-six.

It didn’t make sense.

A moment passed, and Saito laughed quietly, ducking his head down as his shoulders shook. “My apologies—I should have given you an explanation earlier.” He lifted his head, looked Robert straight in the eye. “Consider it an investment that I have made, Mr. Fischer.”

“An investment.”

“Yes,” Saito’s smile widened just a fraction more. “I only wish to contribute, no matter how great or small, to making sure that greatness reaches it maximum potential.”

Silence. Robert unfolded his arms, leaned back against his chair. “That is a dangerous gamble to make, Mr Saito. I have not even begun.”

Saito only smiled at him, inscrutable yet pleased. Robert opened his mouth, about to ask him what he meant, when Saito interrupted him

“Are you yet an unreasonable man, Mr. Fischer?” he steeled his fingers, crossing his legs as he leaned in closer to Robert.

Unbidden, Robert smiled. He turned his head, looking out of the window of the office. The sun was starting to set, and he was mildly surprised—they had been talking for so long?

“I’d rather remain in touch with at least a little bit of reason,” and his smile was a little sharp. “For it was through reason that men are most easily collared.”

The words slipped out of him almost involuntarily. Robert believed in those words, but usually he kept his beliefs within, sharing them with no one. Not even Uncle Peter, but that might not say much, these days.

( _“The company is my life,”_ Uncle Peter had shouted at him. _“You’re breaking it into pieces. You’re destroying my and your father’s lifework.”_

Robert was shot with a sense of déjà vu. He had heard that before. Maybe that was the reason why he didn’t trust Uncle Peter anymore.)

But Saito didn’t look scandalised, didn’t even look shocked. He only smirked, pleased, as if he had a long-standing suspicion confirmed.

“Then I look forward to seeing how you will use reason as your servant, Mr. Fischer.”

“Rather than it being my master?” Why, Robert thought, was it so easy to trade words with this man?

Why did Robert think that Saito would _understand_?

“Yes,” Saito said, and the pleasure in his eyes seemed to have increased twofold. Then, he seemed to make a sort of abortive jerk. Robert blinked.

“My apologies—it is rude for me to visit for so long without offering a gift. To you.” And he was drawing out a package out of his jacket before Robert could even begin to demur—Proclus had loaded Fischer-Morrow with enough corporate gifts, after all.

But he had an idea that this was something not for the company. A hunch.

“I visited the Americas lately, Mr. Fischer,” Saito said, curling the _r_ on his tongue, and he was almost fascinated.

“I hope you will find this to be a satisfactory gift.”

Robert took the package, and turned it around.

 _Fazenda Santa Ines_. The highest-rated coffee in the entire world; and Robert’s favourite. He always used to send his assistant to the one roaster in Sydney that sold it. Now that he was mainly stationed in Los Angeles, there was nowhere else he could’ve gotten it. Unless he sent his assistant by plane to Canada, and not even Robert’s caffeine addiction would have led to that.

He had better sense.

How could Saito have...?

His head jerked up, and Robert’s eyes were wide.

Saito only smiled, standing up from his chair. He reached over, and placed his hand on top of Robert’s, squeezing lightly. Taken aback, Robert didn’t pull away, and his breath caught slightly at the warmth of Saito’s skin.

“Your enjoyment of it is enough, Mr. Fischer.” And he was heading towards the door. “Have a good evening.”

***

 _Saito creates people, next. He walks back to the beach and loses his leather oxfords midway, tugging off his socks and letting them lie on the sand. Then he kneels on the shore, the tide wetting his tailored slacks as he digs his fingers into the sand. He creates people – mishappened little shapes, standing all around him, and he names them. One is Mother, one is Aunt, one is Older Sister. One is his assistant at the office. One is the wakagashira he had worked under, once, and with whom he still have tea every two months._

 _He creates Eames and Arthur first, and watches them banter. He gives them his versions of their stories, weaves endless half-truths and non-truths until they have become the people he sees. They amuse him._

 _He creates Ariadne and Yusuf, and Ariadne helps him sculpt, her small fingers lying over his. Yusuf wanders into the water, and with a wave of a hand he creates freshwater from the sea, and helps to ease Saito’s thirst._

 _He creates Cobb and a distorted, half-remembered version of his wife that he barely remembers. Hasn’t he met her once, in the beautiful black off-shoulder dress, as she stands beside him and point a gun at her husband? Saito barely remembers. His memories are blurry, faded. She is only recognisable from the dress, now._

 _He does not create Robert Fischer._

***

When Robert picked through his mail three months later, seated in his office at the top floor of the Galahad Building in the heart of New York, he saw his face three times. On the cover of _The Economist_ and the _Wall Street Journal_ , and of course, the front page of _New York Times_ , business section.

>   
> **STOCK FOR NEW GALAHAD CORPORATIONS RISES BY 27%**
> 
>  **GALAHAD STOCKS SHOOT SKY HIGH**

Robert hid a smile, thumbing through the pages without bothering to read them. They all were telling him the same thing, and it was what he already knew, what he had worked his fingers to the bone for. He might not be his father, and he might not even be trying to be his father any longer. But it doesn’t mean that Robert hadn’t trained all of his life to replace his father.

It didn’t mean that he hadn’t grown up in this world and knew exactly how it moved and, most importantly, how to make it move. Once, Robert had tried to make it move in the exact same way as Maurice Fischer had; he had tried to straighten his shoulders, wore loud ties that choked him and bright rings that weighed him down, trying to become a clone of his father because it wasn’t good enough that he was his son. He didn’t believe it was enough. He had tried to become something he wasn’t, because it only seemed reasonable. It seemed the only way to be.

But Robert was tired of reason.

He swept the magazines off the table into the conveniently placed trash bin below it, continuing to go through his mail. Letters, letters, invitations to parties and functions that he had no interest in—

And one plain unmarked envelope, with his name written in the front with Saito’s flowing handwriting. Robert traced his fingers over the letters, and thought that Saito wrote English like he was trying to force the alphabets to form the far more graceful forms of hiragana and kanji. The thought made him smile. He glanced over to the snow globe that he still kept on his desk, the one that he carried with him whenever he changed offices, even when it was only for a few days.

It was a reminder. An encouragement. That someone believed in him.

He opened the letter.

Then, he called his secretary to tell him to schedule in some time with Mr. Saito next week, during the energy summit in Japan. Luncheon would be held in Fukushima, Japan. At the Nunobiki Plateau Wind Farm.

Which Robert had no idea that Saito owned until just now. But then—it was entirely possible that Saito _didn’t_ own it until just now. Robert wouldn’t put it past him.

He was getting used to Saito’s habits, Robert realised suddenly, and the small smile that had curved up his lips faded away. It disquieted him.

And he had no idea why.

(Uncle Peter would say that he was listening far too much to Saito; that he shouldn’t because Saito was a competitor. That he should keep the other man at arm’s length, because he was not to be trusted.

Robert stopped listening to Uncle Peter a long time ago.)

His eyes glanced over to the corner, where the snow globe still sat. Where the blades of the windmill continued to turn, and turn, and turn.

***

“I didn’t know that Proclus Global had an interest in wind energy,” Robert set down his utensils, dabbing his mouth with the napkin even as he lifted an eyebrow at Saito.

Saito sipped at the red wine that had come with the meal. It was Wagyu steak, as it usually was if Robert was visiting him in Japan. “It is a new department,” there was a light in his eyes that made Robert turn his head, hiding the answering gleam in his own gaze. Though, he still listened. “Under my direct overseeing.”

Now that was just—Robert laughed quietly, and wondered why he had already expected this. He turned his eyes to the horizon, watching the sails of the windmills turn. The sails were the same dimensions as those of his farms, but they seemed to be moving a little faster than the wind speed would suggest. Perhaps because they were made of a lighter material? The entire look of it was different as well...

Robert closed his eyes, letting the wind caress through his hair, strands falling across his eyes. He had always loved the wind. And the sun, as well, as it beat down upon them, though most of the glare was cut by the glass roof on top, covered with solar panels.

He felt a hand brushing through his face, tucking the stray hair back, and Robert opened his eyes, and leaned back away from the touch. Saito’s eyes lidded immediately, and he slid back to his own seat.

(But Robert didn’t protest. He didn’t dislike the touch.)

“Are you trying to be my competitor before I even fully begin, Mr. Saito?” he picked up his own glass of wine, wetting his lips with it. 1982 Château Lafite-Rothschild, Robert identified, and took another sip. Then, he put it down.

Far too rich for his tastes. He would rather have coffee.

“No.” Saito was laughing, smiling as if he had not just—just what? Touch him? There’s nothing wrong with that, and it wasn’t as if Robert found that touch distasteful.

It wasn’t. At all.

He tried to focus on the conversation, especially when Saito drew out a brown envelope from his briefcase, and pushed it towards him. “I propose a partnership instead.”

“A partnership.”

“I have said once that I am investing in the potential of your greatness.” Robert nodded—he remembered that conversation, heard it in his mind every time he drank the coffee that Saito had given him.

“You have your eyes set towards the future, Mr. Fischer. I only wish to partake in the same.” Saito had folded his hands in front of him, leaning forward.

Robert lifted an eyebrow, opening the envelope. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Saito motion towards a waiter. But his attention was mostly caught by the document. It listed the wind farms currently under Proclus Global’s ownership—Nunobiki, Aoyama Plateau, Seto—and set an agreement to put them in the hands of Galahad Corporations, for ‘the benefit and profitability of both parties’.

Saito was practically giving the farms to him. He had put them in Robert’s hands, to do as he saw fit. He was giving him an in to the Japanese clean energy market, with definite room to spread throughout the rest of East Asia, and even Southeast Asia. It was something that would definitely help to expand the new Galahad Corporations, turning it from an United States-and-Australia-based company to a global one.

It was far more help than he deserved. And Robert didn’t understand _why_.

Proclus Global didn’t need the profits that the wind farms could bring. It didn’t even need any new departments, because the company was expanding further even when Saito wasn’t doing anything about it.

“That’s a lot of confidence you have for a new company,” he finally said, because there was really nothing else that he could say.

Saito only smiled, and looked at him with warm eyes. It was a gaze that Robert was familiar with, but one that he could never get used to or even understood. His breath caught, and he ducked his head down, flipping through the pages, trying to read through the proposal but only having his eyes skimmed through the words.

Then, the waiter set down a cup at his side. Robert’s eyes snapped up—and it was his coffee. _His_ coffee. He picked up the cup and sipped at it, eyes darting to stare at Saito again.

It was black, with no sugar. Just like how he always likes it.

Robert wondered, wryly, if Saito could read minds.

***

 _The skies of Limbo are always blue—except when Saito is bored of the colour, and he lets a storm rip through the castles he has built, making people in his world scramble for cover. Saito becomes god, and grows old because he expects to. Not even gods are exempt from the failing of a human mind, after all._

 _He has a million and one regrets, and all the people around him, all of whom he had created—they are no longer enough. Even when surrounded, he feels alone, aching._

 _He waits to die alone, filled with regrets. Staring up to the bright blue skies above and wondering why, why it fills him with such longing. With such wanting._

 _Then one day, Saito meets a man with an endlessly spinning top. One day, he takes the gun from the table, and shoots himself in the head._

 _One day, as an old man filled with regret, Saito remembers Robert Fischer’s eyes. Saito remembers all the reasons why he had never tried to recreate Robert in this world that belongs solely to him._

 _If he is to win him, it will be in the real world. Because his mind will never be able to fake the feel of Robert’s heat against his skin; the feel of how his body fits against Saito; feel the sharpness of his tongue and his attitude against Saito’s lips. He remembers that he never wants to commit Cobb’s mistake, of recreating within his mind a person for whom he wants to find every complexity, every imperfection, and every strength._

 _In that one second away from dying (from waking), Saito remembers what he wants. And why he wants. He remembers the colour of bright, pale blue against snow. He remembers falling in love._

 _He remembers how to fight for what he wants, instead of merely_ creating _._

***

It had taken Robert five years. In the business world, that was a blink of an eye and five decades both, but now he was standing at the top floor of the Galahad Corporations offices in Los Angeles, looking down on the other buildings. Solar panels spread their wings over the top of every one, and crawled downwards to plaster themselves onto the windows.

A few blocks away was the smaller Fischer-Morrow building. It still existed, but long handed over to Uncle Peter. The company had always belonged to him far more than it had belonged to Robert, anyhow. It was only fair, and to be honest, he was glad to be rid of it.

After all, he had his own empire to conquer, and to build.

And now he had. Galahad Corporations changed the look of Los Angeles—and even America. The suburbs were littered with his wind turbines, and the households, offices, and almost all standing users of power no longer needed ‘brown energy’.

Robert still had challenges to conquer. The cars and the planes, for example. Transportable energy was more difficult, because bio-fuels would never be as good as petrol and diesel. Hybrid cars were a stupid idea. Plus there was the problem of Shell and ExxonMobil, of course—now two of his major competitors with regards to energy. Mostly the latter; the former... not so much.

Well; his, and Proclus Global’s. The changes in the world were not made by Robert alone. He smiled to himself, and remembered Saito’s words.

 _“I only wish to contribute, no matter how great or small, to making sure that greatness reaches it maximum potential.”_

Robert hadn’t reached that yet. There was still greater room for him to grow, more challenges for him to overcome, though the newspapers and magazines no longer made mention of Maurice Fischer. When they mentioned ‘Fischer’, they meant _Robert_ Fischer. No one else.

First, he had outgrown his father’s form and figure. Now, he had outgrown his father’s shadow. He wondered if he would be proud. If that was what he would have wanted—and, nowadays, Robert realised that he didn’t entirely care.

He was his own man, now.

There was a knock on the door, but Robert didn’t even bother to turn around. It opened, and Saito stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He was carrying a brown envelope, and he circled around the desk, coming to stand beside Robert to stare out into the cityscape.

“ExxonMobil gave in,” Saito said, quirking his lips upwards. He nudged Robert’s side with the envelope, and Robert took it, reaching back to his desk to reach the letter opener. Saito’s hand closed around his wrist, and Robert didn’t resist him when he tugged him around to face him.

There was that look on Saito’s face again. It was something familiar, something he had seen on Saito’s face every time since their first meeting during that one function, right after Robert had thanked him for the snow globe. But this time—it was a look that he recognised. A look he accepted.

“Happy birthday, Robert,” Saito said, and leaned in to kiss him on the brow.

Most people would give roses, or perhaps chocolates. Or Hallmark cards, really. But Robert had learnt very early on that Saito was far from most people. Besides, Robert had never wanted flowers, or chocolates, or even cards. He could get all of that himself. Even the package he held in his hands—the most extravagant gift Saito had given him yet—he could have gotten for himself

What Saito had given him was far more priceless than a hostile takeover of one of Robert’s major competitors.

Robert reached up, tangled his fingers around Saito’s collar, pulling him down and kissing him properly on the lips. Saito’s mouth opened against his immediately, a hand wrapping around Robert’s waist and pulling him close.

“You’ve really topped yourself this year. You’re sure you don’t want ExxonMobil for yourself?” he asked, mouthing against Saito’s jaw, feeling his stubble scrape against his own smoother skin.

“It is for you. But you must promise me that I will have Shell,” Saito’s laugh rumbled against Robert’s chest, and he nipped at his ear.

“Only if you get there before I do,” Robert countered. Except that he wouldn’t try very hard.

“Saito,” he breathed, cupped Saito’s face in both hands, and tugged him down so that their gazes met. So Saito could see the depth of emotion in his eyes. “I still don’t know why you _believed_ —”

“My dear Robert,” Saito breathed, and he kissed him lightly, chastely, to silence him. Robert was almost tempted to bite him. “I only believed in what I saw with my own eyes. Nothing else.

“Besides,” he continued, smiling that crooked smile that Robert was so achingly familiar with, now. “I never wanted to die an old man, filled with regrets again.”

“You won’t,” and it was the one promise that Robert knew he could make. Reaching down, he tangled his fingers against Saito’s. “Because I’m here; and damn you if you dare to have any regrets when I’m right here.”

And Saito leaned his forehead against his, and laughed throaty and terribly happy against his mouth.

***

 _When he first awoke on the plane, Saito can only stare at Cobb blankly, wondering and wondering if he is back to reality. Wondering if the world around him is real, or if it is something he has created for himself._

 _He doesn’t know, and there is no way—but despite that, Cobb’s eyes are on him, and Saito remembers. He remembers their arrangement, if nothing else, and in the next moment he is grasping for the plane phone, his eyes darting back and forth around the first class cabin._

 _And when he looks, really_ looks _, after clearing the cobwebs from his visions and the trembling from his hands, he sees Robert Fischer. He sees him reclining in his chair, staring out of the window._

 _He is there. For the first time in four decades, in ten hours, Saito sees him again._

 _And he knows—_ knows _with the conviction of a man who has never needed a totem—that he is back in reality._

 _End_


End file.
